It’s the little room inside women. It’s the room, maybe, that you deny; but that, every now and then, you unlock and peek into.

It’s the door, you’ve been taught, that you shouldn’t unlock.

But every now and then you do.

Maybe it’s the room you’ve known since you were a young woman, maybe a girl, when men were like giants, so much larger, more powerful and even frightening.

But there was something about how they frightened you that only a woman understands.

Did it excite you? Does it?

Did it make you wet? You keep it locked in that room but you want to open it, you want to obey it, you want to be frightened. You want to submit to that little room that says it knows your place. You hear it behind the locked door like a monster’s deep, demanding, powerful and masculine call.

What do you see when you peek?

You see yourself. You see yourself as you’ve seen those other women – the women in cults, whose lives (you think) you can’t comprehend. You are your husband’s property. You wear their clothes. You obey and submit to your husband because you are his wife.

Admit it, something in your nature dares you to walk into that room.

Maybe your just one wife among many.

You’ve seen them. They walk with the air of certainty — lives without doubt, or so you imagine. Their place is explained. Their meaning is understood. Their daily tasks are a woman’s tasks. You stand in a kitchen with other wives. You each have your chores. You cook, you clean, your fingers are caked with flour and apple rind.

Your husband returns from the field.

He is dressed simply. You? You wear what women wear, a simple white dress like the other wives. When he opens the door you each know that your husband is sore with labor, and that his labor has aroused him. You each lower your eyes as he glances at you. His stern eyes rest on you. You lean, abdomen against the wooden counter, drawing and pushing a rolling pin.

“Come,” he says to you.

Your husband’s other wives know. You know. This is a woman’s daily task. You go to pump water into a pitcher, to clean your hands, but your husband is possessed by the labor yet to be done. His daily task. His responsibility to each of you.

His thoughts were on his wives as he plowed and seeded the field – now he will plow and seed again.

His hand is on your ass, another grips your arm. He leads you out of the kitchen as the other wives watch. There is certainty. They take comfort in the command with which he leads you out of the kitchen. They take comfort that you will kneel on your hands and knees. They take comfort that what you will receive is also theirs. They take comfort in order. In return for what he gives you, you each give him a place for his seed. Your gift to him is your bounty.

He doesn’t close the bedroom door.

There’s no need to. You are all his wives.

Standing in the right place, standing in the kitchen, they might see what he does to you.

He pushes you to the bed. The flour and apple rind of your hands is pressed into the bed linens. You will clean the linens when he is done. He unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his pants. His cock is large and he smells of soil, manure, and sun.

He unbuttons the rear of your dress, designed for just this purpose.

No. There’s one other purpose. Sometimes when he unbuckles the leather belt, he draws it from his pants and loops it in his hand. Sometimes you must be reminded of your place, woman. And in those times, your position is no different. Your cries are strangely the same. You are reminded of the comfort in order, obedience and a woman’s place.

All of you wear the same dress,

His rough and calloused hands hold the white, frilly fabric at your hips. You cry out as he mounts you. His cock goes deeply inside you. His thrusts are quick and powerful. He swings his hips, eager, desireful, unstoppable. You brace yourself. You submit to your husband. You obey and he comes, holding himself tightly against you, his fingers digging into the delicate fabric of your dress. And you come too, mouth open, eyes wide, suddenly and unexpectedly. He fills your belly – your woman’s task. You take his seed inside yourself and you obediently wait.

He shakes one last time.

Then he withdraws. The lips of your belly close softly behind his cock. His orgasm is inside you.

He pats you on the only part of you that his naked, your ass. He stands, buttoning his pants and fastening his wide, leather belt. You stand. You button the delicate dress behind you, then straighten its fabric. “I will have you again, my wife,” he says. “Come to my room tonight.”

You cast your eyes downward, and blush becomingly.

When you return to the kitchen, your white dress fits tightly, but underneath your flat belly is warm and syrupy. Your husband’s wives take your hands and clean them. They straighten your hair and adjust your dress. They know what is placed warmly inside you – the task of wives and of each of them. There is order. The kitchen work resumes. You return to the counter with its flour and half peeled apples even as your thighs begin run with the syrup in your belly.

But you close the door.

The vision frightens you even as it draws you.

Admit it.

You lock the door but you will be back. And you will see something different next time (and the same). Maybe you think we don’t know — your men, lovers and husbands — but we know. We know because the same room is inside us. We discovered that room when were boys. We were ashamed. But when we were young men, we returned again and again because we wonder what it would be like. What we see makes us want to tell you — suck, kneel, do it now, bend over and spread your legs.

But we see it in your eyes too…
We know…
We see it when you wait for us to tell you…

I isn’t she a dainty dish set before the King.
Perhaps a bit to communal for my taste….
You see this Meme, shares none of her possessions.
Theoretically, or should I say fictionally a nice delight,
But never a share in her knights.

No love…I have not wondered.
I wonder only about my own experiences.
guess that makes me quite one dimensional.
Wait… I do wonder about experiences in which my lovers (wonder/wander)
That is about the extent of my wondering.

Oh yes, I admit it. I ADMIT it. Though the sister wives’ scenario holds little appeal for me, the overwhelming masculinity and commanding nature of the man in your story definitely does. I totally admit to the desire to willingly succumb to the sweat…the hard working nature…the lack of seduction….just the taking with no apologies.

I’m a huge fan of erotic black and white photography. I adore this picture. Love the lingerie.☺

My favorite lines: “Maybe it’s the room you’ve known since you were a young woman, maybe a girl, when men were like giants, so much larger, more powerful and even frightening.”

“But there was something about how they frightened you that only a woman understands.”

You’re right. Most women don’t know how to articulate this desire within them, but it’s there. I love a “frightening” man. A big man. A tall man. A hard working man. The brooding, silent type oozing in sexuality. Yummy! If he can’t throw me over his shoulders and carry me up a hill, silently ignoring my pleas to put me down, well, I’m not interested.

And…

“He unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his pants. His cock is large and he smells of soil, manure, and sun.”

Soul, manure, and sun. Mmmm. There’s nothing more arousing and erotic than a hard working man with an insatiable sex drive for his woman.

Your stories are awesome. You are REALLY good at this. I’m at a loss as to how you know a woman’s mind so well. Your insight is incredible.☺

Don’t like the sister wives? I smile when I read that. The response to so many of my stories is: Perfect, but for this little this or this little that. I smile when I write that. The variety of our desires is wonderful. The “sister wives” was inspired by the image which reminded me of the Christian cult in Texas where the women were wearing these, sort of, pseudo prairie/frontier-woman dresses. They were awful.

As to me knowing a woman’s mind. I guess that’s a requirement for writers—putting ourselves in the minds of others. Part of being in love with women is imagining what it must be like to be a woman. I have spoken to other male erotic writers who consider the thought of being a woman, even if for a day, almost insulting. “God no! Never!” I can’t fathom that. How could anyone possibly write erotica without wanting to know the experience of the opposite sex? If I could be a woman for day, the very first thing I’d want to do is make love. :-)

And yes those dresses are AWFUL as are the upswept, high hairdos. I don’t understand it. I was immersed in Christianity and there’s nothing Christian about this cult. In my opinion the man is having the time of his life…basking in sexual glory. And the women, regardless of how they profess sisterhood, love, and friendship are jealous of one another and full of animosity. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

As to your comment about being a woman for a day, I have a male friend who told me if he had a kitty (lady parts) he would never leave the house. *LOL*

As for me, I REVEL in being a woman. I think it’s the greatest thing EVER.

Your insight into the mind of a woman…into her sexuality makes you an amazing writer and a T-Total Hottie. 😉

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